


hang medusa by her hair

by coriandrumsativum



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Dubious Consent, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, d/s dynamics that are never fully articulated or agreed on, unsafe kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26703898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriandrumsativum/pseuds/coriandrumsativum
Summary: The thing, right, insomuch as there isathing, is that this is, at its core, a simple business transaction. Tommy Shelby, madman that he is, has a need, and Alfie Solomons, in his wisdom and generosity, has provided a solution. The fact that they both fucking get off on it is frankly immaterial in the economic calculations.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 9
Kudos: 112





	hang medusa by her hair

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags, and understand that this work is not intended to provide healthy or wholesome examples of human behaviour. I didn't tag it as rape/non-con due to a personal interpretation of the difference between non-con and dub-con, but err on the side of caution when deciding whether or not you wish to continue reading. You can see the end notes for more detailed warnings.
> 
> Also, in case it needs to be said, Alfie Solomons isn't a Good Guy™. It's pretty clear in the show, and he's honest about it with himself in this fic. However, his negative character traits as I have written them here are _individual_ traits, and are _not_ meant to be taken as commentary about Judaism or Jewish people as a whole. I have done my best to avoid using language or imagery that ties into antisemitic rhetoric, but I'm not Jewish so I may still have made mistakes in that regard. Please be aware of that going in, and feel free to let me know if there's anything I can fix or add to the tags/warnings.

It started... Well. It fucking started when Tommy Shelby showed up in his bakery, didn't it? When Tommy Shelby showed up in his bakery and then perched in the chair across the desk, pale and bruised and clearly having a hard fucking time keeping himself together. Whatever had happened to him hadn't deterred him, had it, but it'd shaken his confidence just enough that his dead fucking eyes still had a little life left in them, and the life was fear.

That's probably when it started.

•

Nothing happens for a long time, after. Nothing except that the little spark of fear is gone, now, and that makes Thomas less fucking convenient to deal with. His eyes are all the way dead, and the depth of it's unsettling. In this line of work, right, you get to be quite adept at spotting counterfeits, whether it's jewels or alcohol or lying little boys trying to deal with what they haven't got. He's seen paste jewels look convincing until the light hits just right, and he's found dozens of ways to smash the smug facade of any number of weasels that've scurried around his fucking feet. Thomas Shelby, though, is genuinely fucking empty.

Money, power, influence, legitimacy – those are all fucking pass-times, same as the cigarettes he fucking lives on. There's no enjoyment in any of it, no anticipation, no satisfaction. Everything is just motions to him, just meaningless little games to fill up the hours until he can fucking die.

He's not fucking _special_ for wanting to die, _everyone_ wants to die, it's fucking _gauche_ at this point. 

Thing is, though, Thomas doesn't _want_. If the opportunity presents itself, he'll sit back and let it have a go, but if it doesn't work out, no hard feelings, right? Hard to be disappointed when you never expect anything. If he _wanted_ anything, he'd be easier to handle. Because _wanting_ , see, provides the creative mind with various means of exploitation: you can offer the object of the wanting, or you can take it away, or you can take it for yourself, or you can control it. Wanting is the basis of all negotiation, and in its absence there is no fucking leverage.

For a good long while, Alfie has no fucking leverage, and Tommy fucking knows it. And he uses it, too, because he's not an idiot, and you can't respect a man what's not an opportunist, can you? So he makes demands and gets his way, staring Alfie down with those Medusa eyes in that marble face.

Must've looked in the mirror too often, turned himself to stone. Maybe wondered what it felt like.

Alfie's still flesh and blood, though, rather than stone and ice, even after all this time, so he stares back, his carefully curated insanity the steel to Tommy's stone, and he lets the sparks catch what they will when they scatter from the impact.

Eventually, though, the sparks catch _him_ , and that's when it really starts.

Because Tommy's a pretty little thing, and the nuance, right, the minuscule concessions of those Medusa eyes and that marble face, they are a fucking _challenge_ , and Alfie's gone too long without the security of a meaningful threat.

When he gets his hands around Tommy's neck, _that's_ leverage.

•

The first time, it's actually meant as a threat. As an act of violence. Thomas forgets, sometimes, that in Alfie's land Alfie is king, and he needs to be reminded.

And most men, right, most rational souls, will react to a sudden absence of air with fear and desperation. Supply and demand: they want to breathe, that's the demand, and Alfie's palm crushing their windpipe is the manifestation of the market forces what control the supply. Except Alfie fucking forgets that Thomas doesn't _want_ , doesn't want to live and doesn't want to die. It's meant as a threat, a demonstration of power – he's not ashamed to admit it, it's patently fucking transparent that that is his goal – but as soon as it lands, Tommy...shifts, under his hand. Not physically, he doesn't move, but the marble slips, the snakes retreat, and for the barest second Thomas Shelby is alive again. Then he gets control of himself again, so quick Alfie isn't quite sure it'd even happened, but there's something extra in the stoniness when it comes back, something confrontational in the flat reflection of his eyes, and he knows he's seen something that Thomas never meant anyone to see.

So he pushes, right, because you can't respect a man what's not an opportunist, can you?

He leans in, and he _pushes_ , Tommy's neck between his hand and the wall with no room for air on either side, and he holds his stare and watches the want roll through him once more before it's shuttered and Tommy breaks his hold. It doesn't go any further, that time, but the proverbial cat has left the fucking bag behind and led Alfie straight to a treasure trove.

•

It's slow going, because they both have fucking jobs to do, don't they, and more pressing concerns to address, and because once again, Thomas isn't an idiot.

Far as Alfie's concerned, they're fair now. That one-way invulnerability is gone, and they both have their advantages and know each other's weaknesses. Course, Alfie doesn't have much in the way of weaknesses, since like Thomas he long ago erased the lines of fucking morality from his world, but Thomas had known that Alfie didn't have anything to hold over him, and that had been a weakness all on its own. Now, though, they're on even footing and may the worst of them win.

Naturally, Thomas doesn't see it that way. If he doesn't have half a dozen more guns pointed at his target than the target does at him, he thinks it a fucking unsporting situation. Always needs to have the upper hand, does Thomas. Pathologically. Alfie hasn't worked out how that need is different than want, but somehow it is. Fucking twisted logic.

Way Thomas sees it, Alfie's found a weak spot, so now he needs to find another angle on Alfie. At least, that's how it looks to someone outside of Thomas' ever-whirring cogs of cognition, and it suits Alfie's purposes fine. Would've been best for Thomas to concede the loss and learn what even footing actually means, but no. Fair's not fair enough for him, so he's going in again, looking to turn his loss into profit with fucking interest.

He must think Alfie's as ashamed of it as he is. Must think that wanting is a failing all around. He's fucking wrong, but of course he hasn't considered that possibility. 

It doesn't occur to him that if he puts himself in Alfie's hands, Alfie will fucking _take_ him.

•

The next time, they're in a meeting, and Tommy takes the cigarette from his lips and casually offers to suck Alfie's cock.

And that, right, that is a terrible idea, because this is Alfie's office and business and pleasure can mix all they want in the proper fucking space, which this categorically is _not_ , and because if Thomas Shelby looks up at you through a haze of smoke with his head cocked just so and offers to blow you, he's fucking planned something. 

Alfie's not nearly stupid enough to go along with it, but he's also not too proud to admit that the idea has a certain merit, so he nods, considering, and then sits back in his chair to make his counter-offer.

Tommy goes stony again, and Alfie can't exactly _see_ his own thoughts going through Tommy's head, but they must be, yeah, because Tommy ain't stupid either.

He's not surprised when Tommy breaks his trance with a drag on his cigarette and returns to their previous topic of conversation. Not surprised, and not disappointed. He doesn't give a fuck what Tommy wants as long as it's something he can control, and the fact that he'd ignored Alfie's offer instead of giving any number of well-deserved rebuttals is as good a sign as any that it'd been tempting.

•

It takes a few more tries, and Alfie keeps careful note of them.

It's the fourth time he makes the suggestion that Tommy lifts the lifeless curtain behind his eyes and asks if he's fucking serious.

 _Yeah, mate_ , Alfie says, _I'm fucking serious_. He doesn't say that he can tell how bad Tommy wants it, doesn't say that he's started to want it too. Doesn't let on that he's imagined it, how Tommy's neck will feel in his hands, how his thumbs will fit into the curve of Tommy's throat, how Tommy will tremble and gasp, because that's not the fucking plan. He just says _yeah, I'm fucking serious_ , and let's Thomas draw his own conclusions.

The fifth time, Tommy sighs with the put-upon air of a sage surrounded by hordes of insufferable morons and tells Alfie that his fixation is in dire need of addressing.

 _So why don't I fucking address it, then_ , Alfie says, no threat, no jokes, nothing but his steel against Tommy's stone.

 _Another time, perhaps_ , Tommy says after a bit, something like humour in the lift of his eyebrow, but neither life nor laughter in his eyes. Alfie shrugs, and they move on.

It's the sixth time, almost three months after their mutual awakening to the topic, that Alfie stops asking and _acts_. It's evening, darker in the shadows of the street than in the sky, and Alfie backs Tommy up against a wall with one hand just so under his chin, the bones of his thumb hard against the cartilage of his throat. It's evening, darker in the shadows than the sky, and in one such unseen shadow Alfie gives Tommy what he wants, and Tommy submits to it entirely.

He goes limp against the wall, a muted moan falling from his parted lips, and starts to flush in a way that has nothing to do with interrupted circulation. Alfie holds him up with one hand just so under his chin and keeps him there until his eyes are glassy. Then he backs off, catches Tommy when he stumbles, and steers them back to civilisation so he can put Tommy in a cab and send him off.

•

Alfie stops mentioning it after that, gives no hint with word or look or gesture that it hasn't fallen out of his head entirely, and watches Tommy go quietly and incrementally insane with a want he's got no idea what to do with.

•

Alfie's very good at waiting, when he wants to be, and the virtue of his patience is rewarded when, after the conclusion of their next scheduled bit of business, Tommy pulls out a cigarette and asks if Alfie wants to fuck, or what.

 _I don't care if we fuck_ , Alfie tells him. _Fucking or no fucking, makes no difference to me. Question is, Thomas, what do_ you _want?_

 _Makes no difference_ , Tommy parrots back, flippant but pissed, yeah, that Alfie's called him out after all this time.

And Alfie can make his face a fucking mountain as well, so he sets himself in stone and tells Tommy that it's business, right, and if the terms of their agreement are to be expanded, Tommy needs to put his demands into fucking words.

Tommy glares, eyes alive and alight, hotter than the embers creeping towards his fingers. _You know my demands_ , he says, words dragged with disgust across the floor of his pride, and Alfie smiles.

_Yeah, sweetheart, I do._

Tommy looks like he can't decide who to kill first, Alfie or himself, but he doesn't leave, doesn't argue, doesn't move. Just sits there and smokes and burns holes in Alfie's eyes with his own.

If Alfie were a better man, he'd need more than that to go on, but he's not, and he's already been more than generous.

So he writes down an address, gives Tommy a time – that night, yeah, because as previously mentioned he's more than generous – and shoos him out of his office.

They don't fuck, not like proper sodomites, but Alfie puts Tommy on his back and chokes him until Tommy can't remember his own fucking name, and it's plenty gratifying for the both of them.

•

Now, Alfie's no fucking saint, right, and wouldn't be even if he held with the concept, and neither is he a rational machine. This has always been about leverage, and that hasn't changed, but it was never going to be _solely_ about leverage. Tommy's a pretty little thing, and what's the point of pretty little things if not to be owned? Beauty in the eye of the beholder, and that shit – fucking _trite_ , but it's not wrong. And Thomas Shelby has beauty in spades, and that beauty belongs to Alfie's eye.

At first it's enough to simply shut him up, to strip him off his plinth and make him fucking _human_ , to watch him fall apart on the precipice of life and death in the literal palm of his hand, but before long Alfie can't ignore the fact that he wants more.

It's quickly becoming a transaction rather than an extortion, but he can't help himself. Tommy Shelby is fucking beautiful, all right, and if the Maker sees fit to deposit him in Alfie's bed, it would be fucking ungrateful not to appreciate that act of kindness.

So the next time it happens, he goes farther than he normally does, and when Tommy is boneless and barely conscious on the mattress, Alfie ruts himself to completion between his sprawled open legs, still in their trousers. He comes with a shudder and a groan, and Tommy rouses a bit, eyes half-open and sliding around beneath the lids. _Good boy_ , Alfie shushes him. _It's all right, yeah. It's all right._

Tommy shifts a bit, then drifts back under. Alfie checks, and he's breathing just fine, throat not even bruised. Maybe it's guilt, a fucking misplaced sensation if ever there was one, or maybe he's just curious, but whatever the impetus he finds himself tugging down Tommy's trousers and reaching into his underwear.

He's half-hard, not enough to show through the fabric, but enough that Alfie can't resist taking him in hand just to see what will happen. A few strokes in, Tommy starts making little noises, which soon become short, sultry moans and murmurs, and even though his eyes stay closed and his head likely isn't entirely present he's clearly fucking enjoying himself, isn't he? So Alfie, generous soul that he is, gets him trembling and twitching before swallowing him down. It's a good fucking show, he's sure, but it's not one Tommy'll ever see.

When he's done, he tidies them both up and gets Tommy under the covers so he won't wake up cold, and leaves.

•

If Tommy remembers it, it doesn't show, and it leaves Alfie strangely conflicted.

•

_Let's try something_ , Alfie says the next time. _Just a little idea I had, hmm?_

 _Oh?_ Is all Tommy says, insouciant in the hotel room's armchair, but the way his eyes are following Alfie's hands, Alfie knows he's already in, already desperate to get what he came for.

_Yeah. Once upon a time, mate, you asked if I wanted to fuck, and that's a complicated question, right, because it's very situational, but right now, yeah, I do want to fuck, so let's fuck._

Tommy blinks, slowly. _And if I don't?_

 _If you don't, you can walk away_ , Alfie tells him.

 _And if I don't?_ Tommy asks again, but the topic has changed.

 _Then I'll give you what you want, and after that we're gonna fuck._

Tommy blinks again, once, twice, then nods minutely. _Fair enough_ , he says, and stubs out his cigarette.

Alfie's careful this time, keeps him right on the line but never sends him over it, and once Tommy's glassy eyes are more ink than ice, Alfie lets go of his throat and lets him breathe. Between the anticipation and how fucking _good_ it feels to have Tommy Shelby so completely at his mercy, he's already hard, already aching, so he rolls Tommy over onto his front and does the bare minimum to get him ready, right, because he's not a monster but he's already waited so long and he _needs_ this, is almost _shaking_ with need by the time he finally pushes in.

 _Fuck_ , it's good, and for all his eagerness, he doesn't want to rush it. Not like Tommy's going anywhere, is it? They have all night, don't they, and he says so, lips an inch from Tommy's ear as he rolls his hips in long, luxurious thrusts. Tommy shudders beneath him, either from the breath against his ear or from the fact that he's being so thoroughly fucked, and Alfie decides he doesn't care.

He doesn't bother talking much, but doesn't hold in his grunts and pants as the ache builds and builds until he can't hold it back anymore and he drives in one last time and comes in a flood. He collapses down against Tommy's back when he's empty and his arms refuse to hold him up. _Good boy_ , he mumbles. _Good, yeah, just like that. Wasn't so bad, was it?_

Tommy just lays there, and only the movement of his spine against Alfie's chest shows that he's still alive.

He takes some time to relish the fucking feeling, yeah, because why wouldn't he, he's only human after all, but after a couple of minutes he gets himself together and pulls out gingerly. No blood, so that's good, but that's the bare fucking minimum again, isn't it? Tommy still hasn't done much but lie there and breathe, but once Alfie gets him cleaned up again and rolled over onto his back, his face is so fucking _open_ , serene and flushed and _beautiful_ , and he's so fucking hard that Alfie breaks his promise to himself as soon as he sees it and goes down on him in full view of Tommy's open, conscious, cognizant eyes. 

Of course, even human as he is right now, he's not expressive, so even the slightest lift of an eyebrow or faintest hitch in his breathing is a fucking _revelation_ and Alfie keeps track of them all, all the little signs that Tommy Shelby is coming undone. And Alfie pushes, right, that's what he does, that's how he stays on top, he finds the boundaries and expands them in his favour, so he adds in some teeth just to see what'll happen, and of course that's what does it. Tommy comes with a long sigh and somehow becomes even more relaxed than he already was, even more sated, even more content.

Alfie holds his gaze and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. _Do you believe me now, Thomas? Do you know that I know what you want?_

And Tommy, because he's an arse, watches him lazily and says, _No. Not yet._

•

It becomes something of a routine after that. Not predictable, not that kind of routine, not so that anyone else could observe their behaviour and come to any correct conclusions, but so that their already limited verbal exchanges during these activities become frankly non-existent, or at least unnecessary.

If Tommy comes to him, Alfie'll give him what he wants, yeah, but then Alfie'll give himself what _he_ wants, and if Tommy doesn't want to be a part of that second act then he can fuck off after the first.

He usually doesn't, though. 

So Alfie chokes him, and sometimes they fuck afterwards, and sometimes they fuck during, and sometimes he's tired so he just gets himself off and goes to bed, but if Tommy doesn't get off during the asphyxiation he'll usually help him along, right, because he's a benevolent sort.

Sometimes Tommy'll stay the night, depending on the timing, but they're not sleeping together, for fuck's sake. This is all still fucking business.

•

Tommy doesn't want bruises. He doesn't want evidence. He doesn't want to be owned.

That's fine.

There's plenty of ground between _owned_ and _controlled_ , and there's plenty that won't leave marks.

•

Tommy's gasping under his hands, pulling in the thin, reedy breaths that Alfie allows him, but gasping isn't the right word, is it, because gasping implies a sort of frantic desperation that Thomas simply does not have. But he's struggling for air all the same, no matter how fucking _blissful_ the struggle is, and Alfie tightens his grip a little just to watch Tommy's eyelids flutter. He keeps that pressure until the reedy breaths start to whistle and whine, then eases up slowly.

Sprawled limply on the bed in the same position he'd landed in, Tommy gazes up at the ceiling, eyes like celadon. He's a bit flushed, yeah, but other than that the only indication of what just happened is the fucking serenity of his face. 

'Course, part of it is that Alfie knows what the fuck he's doing and has no interest in crushing his fucking throat or clamping his arteries shut, but there's none of the ragged panting or wheezing coughs that usually follow the reintroduction of full pulmonary capacity, and Tommy's loose and relaxed in the way he only ever is after being choked for a good long while.

He's a staggeringly fucked up individual, really. Not like Alfie isn't, but still.

•

_What do you get out of this?_ Alfie asks him eventually, as he's getting ready to leave. _Apart from the obvious, right, because I do have fucking eyes._

Tommy pauses in fastening his cuff links and half-turns to look over at him. The marble's back in his face by now, but it's not totally settled. It's poised, yeah, and still, but not rigid. Not dead. He stares Alfie down with his barely-alive eyes long enough that Alfie thinks that's all the answer he'll get, which is fine by him, right, was just simple curiosity, but then Tommy almost fucking _smiles_ , pauses his petrification and for a moment looks human again, which almost never happens without Alfie's hands around his neck.

 _It's quiet_ , he says. 

Then he's shrugging into his suit jacket and stepping back onto his plinth, the Gorgon in full force once more.

•

_Dinner?_ Tommy asks one evening, and Alfie draws up short.

 _No_ , he says after a pause that maybe lasts a bit long. _Fuck, no. Do you think we’re fucking friends, Thomas?_

 _Business associates can share a meal,_ Tommy points out, completely ignoring the fucking crux of the issue.

_Yeah, well. We don’t. And our business for the day is concluded, all right? Definitively._

Tommy sighs, like Alfie’s being un-fucking-reasonable, but doesn’t continue to push whatever unhinged agenda this is.

•

Tommy shows up at his door a few weeks later, because the hotels was getting to be a fucking irrational expense and Alfie had made the equally irrational choice to let Thomas know where he fucking lives, so he shows up at Alfie's door one night, beaten halfway to hell, and Alfie lets him in and proceeds to overlook him entirely. Tommy knows where the washroom and guestroom are, and as much as Alfie will admit to a certain aesthetic enjoyment of it, he has no intentions of wrapping his hands around an already bruised expanse of skin.

Because he's got no claim to any particular moral standing, but he's not a fucking monster.

Also, if he ends up killing Thomas Shelby, he wants it to be on fucking purpose.

•

Shortly after, Alfie finds himself in Birmingham, and Tommy books them two rooms in what passes for a high-end establishment in this fucking shitstain of a city.

They only use the one.

•

It’s around this time that he realises two things.

First, he’s amassed enough leverage to have reached a comfortable position of rhetorical superiority.

Second, Tommy has amassed an equal amount of leverage against him.

This isn’t completely unexpected, is it, since he’s been aware for a while that their arrangement isn’t nearly as one-sided as he’d intended it to be, but it’s still unwelcome, and deeply inconvenient.

Not enough to call a halt to their activities, though. Not nearly inconvenient enough for that.

So maybe the lever’s become a trebuchet, weighted at both ends, and a certain level of balance between them required for the functioning of the machine. The balance is the tricky thing, but when it’s right, you have a fucking powerful force at your command. 

Leverage, balance, velocity, force – all just components of the same equation, aren’t they? And as long as the output of that equation remains favourable to his own personal interests, there’s no fucking reason to stop what he’s doing.

After all, you can’t respect a man what’s not an opportunist, can you?

**Author's Note:**

> _hang medusa by her hair  
>  the snakes a writhing knot  
> coiled tight around her neck  
> so slender, pale, and fair_
> 
> FURTHER WARNINGS
> 
> This story contains:  
> \- an unbalanced power dynamic in which one character routinely makes all of the decisions about sexual activities without seeking/receiving the full and informed consent of the other  
> \- physically dangerous kink that is not treated as carefully as it should be (no safewords, no contingency plans, and _very_ little explicit verbal communication)  
> \- a situation in which one character decides to perform sexual acts on/with another while the other isn't fully conscious


End file.
